Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Bugs Get Empty Nest Syndrome, Too...

Baby Praying Mantis Leaving the Nest
—Photo by Charlotte Vincent, Sacramento

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Past the hedge
a U-Haul. Neighbors' ledge—
look, the spinning wooden duck is gone.

The shy lady drags a basket across the lawn,
loads it in the truck: map of constellations, fawn
in plaster, withered rose. Willows—see,

no leaves. Now the mystery:
house empty.


—Taylor Graham

One dog lost
after another. Time-crossed
leash-bond of so many years—
human tears. And now we've tossed

a dead bone
for the new pup to chew; stone
flung into the pond—a chase
to erase the seconds that hone

their bright blade.
In earth, so many are laid
to rest. This new puppy runs
under suns, then sleeps in shade.


—Kim Clyde, Sacramento

Holiday makers
Split the water
In their boats
Racing on
The swiftly flowing
Anglers laze
Along the shore
Waiting for
The bite
And tug
Of nature on the line.

Split themselves
From the nature
They enjoy;
Angling for their place
Between earth
And air
And sky
Littering this
Hallowed ground
The detritus of
The modern world.

Good capitalists
They aspire to be
Leaving behind them
The colors
Of the flag as
The wake of boats
Wash upon the shore
At the feet of



—Carol Louise Moon


Some days I feel like a waif
whose thoughts are wafting
from my ears.  Mostly I wonder
the why of things.
And where will the when be answered?
And when will the why be answered?
I have the wherewithall to wonder
without whining while waiting—
possibly with some other wonderer.
Who will I have my with-whom with
…and when?


By the way,
I’ve only seen pictures,
but I noticed the wheel bug
has this little wheel around his neck.
Shall I compare myself to a wheel bug
whose concerns have weighted him down
around his neck?


—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

…where poems are born in the souls of birds;
where old trees listen to the songs of shadows;…
                                    —Joyce Odam


Where poems are born in the souls of birds

is a crisp green meadow with herds
of cattle chewing on the green of words;

where bright yellow gowen bloom in the spring,
the cows all chew and the birds all sing,
is where I’d want to be found nesting.

Where old trees listen to the songs of shadows,
tell their stories to the fox and the crows—
in a place like this I could lose my sorrows

and gain some insight, or philosophy.
I would listen, while sitting the great elm tree,
to the leaves as they whisper back to me. 


Thanks to today's lively cooks in the Kitchen! Charlotte Vincent is Joyce Odam's daughter, and these are amazing photos she caught of our Seed of the Week: Empty Nests! Speaking of Joyce, note the inscription on Carol Louise Moon's second poem. And Taylor Graham says, about her poems: The first [trois-par-huit, our current Form to Fiddle With] is a somewhat fanciful version of disappearing neighbors. The second (one of those Celtic forms) is how we keep the dog-nest from being empty.


Today's LittleNip:

Always be nice to your children because they are the ones who will choose your rest home.

—Phyllis Diller



 —Photo by Charlotte Vincent